Last week was my birthday. I don’t sweat it. I’ve said for years that every birthday I celebrate is one that was denied to some of my peers. Anyone who has lived this long knows people forever frozen in childhood, teenage or young adult years. I’ll take aging and all that comes along with it, thank you very much.
I guess I’m an optimist. I like aging, for the most part. I wouldn’t take a “do over” if offered. Frankly, the idea of being perpetually a teenager sounds mortifying and perpetually being in my unsettled 20s completely terrifying. I like feeling somewhat settled.
That said, I also face age head-on — or, face-on, as I often look in the mirror and wonder who that woman who looks so much like my grandmother is. Spoiler alert: It’s me.
Life goes in chapters
Sometimes one can feel stuck or lost, but things change. In my lifetime, I’ve been a bookish little girl and a fluffy-headed teenager — figuratively and literally. I have been a college student, a happy friend, a blissed-out newlywed, an exhausted new mother and a 30-something woman writing about all those times. Who knows what lies ahead? I never saw myself owning small dogs AND a goat, but here I am.
When being warned about aging, nobody told me about the peace I’m finding or the joy in the little things. I find myself leaning into and enjoying many of the changes. I don’t care so much about being cool and fitting in. I have found my people and they are good for my soul. I cherish that.
There is an incredible freedom on this level that comes with age. You live your life on your terms and allow no one else to tell you how you will live. When you realize how fast the years go, you don’t allow yourself to waste time on anyone or anything that you don’t want to. Of course, you have to give yourself permission.
Sure, much of this gift is learning who I am. I no longer willingly do things I hate. I admit more about myself, such as, I am now “why is this restaurant so LOUD” years old. On the flip side, (album reference, see what I did there?) I’m also “well, darn, if this grocery store isn’t playing my high-school-era music” years old, too.
I’m “once I’m home for the evening, there’s no way I’m going out again” years old with a touch of “if it starts after 8 p.m. I can’t make it” years old. My bedtime is 9 p.m. There are no weekend exceptions. All outings and emergencies should be scheduled before 9 p.m.
On that note, my witching hour is 3 a.m. no matter what time I go to bed. I ought to grab a shift with my dairy-farming friends. I’m up anyway. Unfortunately, I am almost pathologically averse to working in inclement weather, so I wouldn’t be much help.
If I do stay up late, I will need at least three business days to recover. By this, I mean I’m going to stay home and accomplish almost nothing. I love being home.
All of this is to say I’m not mourning my youth the way society expects of me. I’ll admit that I’m long past the age where birthdays are exciting except in the way that I woke up and everything works the way it should — for the most part.
The era of counting down the days is behind me. No one gets overly excited about being 55 “and a half!” years old, do they? Then again, maybe we should.
